


Souls, Hearts, Minds (Sanders Sides Little Women AU)

by emirietype



Category: Little Women (2019), Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Memories, Friends to Lovers, Human Sides (Sanders Sides), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sides As Family (Sanders Sides), Strangers to Lovers, Sympathetic Dark Sides (Sanders Sides)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emirietype/pseuds/emirietype
Summary: Inspired by the 2019 Little Women film, Souls, Hearts, Minds tells the story of the four March brothers: Patton, Logan, Virgil, and Roman, as they struggle to shatter expectations, find love, and support each other. The brothers' present is tied closely to their shared past, and they must learn to grow together and apart.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	1. I. New York, 1868

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Summary:
> 
> “I’ll give the editors the benefit of the doubt, first of all,” Logan started. “And I’m not so overwhelmed with ambition that I willfully and foolishly desire to see myself as a ‘great thinker’ now. I just want to be different and, and new, new enough to be successful, and successful enough-”
> 
> “To support your family, right?” Remus asked. “You know, as much as you try to avoid the topic, you can never really shake them away, can you?”

The sounds of walking feet, hoofbeats, and colloquial conversations were all blurring in Logan’s head as he bolted down the cobblestone streets, past the opulent tourists strolling lazily, past the workers wiping their sweaty foreheads with their leather aprons, past the horse-drawn carts that nearly knocked him over with the overwhelmingly hot, acrid smell of manure.

None of that mattered to him right now.

Logan ducked around crowds as he reached the steps of the Kirk boarding house. Once inside, Logan climbed quietly (but with equal intensity) up the steps, rushing into the nearest room. He knew someone would be waiting for him.

“Remus, I have news,” he exclaimed in one breath. “I’m getting published - I, I mean, it’s finally happening after months, and the Volcano Press said-”

Professor Remus Bhaer turned around in his chair to face Logan. Logan raised an eyebrow - due to his loosened green tie, the fresh ink stains on his rolled-up sleeves, and the extinguished, ashy cigarette dangling between his lips, Logan deduced that the professor must have finished teaching hours ago. But it was only the middle of the afternoon-

“Really, Mr. March, I am surprised by you,” Remus muttered, smirking. “I didn’t realize we were on a new first-name basis. But, if you do want things to be more informal between us-”

“No, Professor Bhaer, that’s enough,” Logan groaned, sliding his coat off as he corrected himself. “I just thought you would want to know, considering the feedback you’d given me on the story.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, pulling the crisp dollar bills out and passing them through his calloused fingers. “Although…”

Remus got up. “Although what?”

Logan shrugged. “Although I hate that the stories themselves have become the least of my worries.” He looked up at Remus. “Let’s face facts: at the end of the day, I need the money. I need to send something to show my brothers that I still care, to assure them I haven’t abandoned them like Roman in Paris-” He stopped himself, suddenly aware of his outburst. “Sorry, Professor Bhaer, forget I said anything, I-”

“I don’t intend to.” Remus’ tone was blunt, yet there was a warmth somewhere beneath it. “I mean, let’s face it: you talk so much about your brothers, it’s like I know them myself.”

“But you don’t, not, not really-” Logan insisted.

“Maybe not, but if nothing else, I get where you’re coming from, Mr. March. I understand your desire to financially support the sad one, protect the sick one, get vengeance on the brat-”

“I don’t want revenge against Roman,” Logan muttered rolling his eyes as he sat down at the desk, taking out his notebook and inkwell. “I just wish he would know better-”

“But you did just say he was a brat,” Remus interjected, scratching lazily at his chin. His chin and cheeks were covered in patches of dark stubble, a mustache growing at his upper lip. “Anyways, which story did you end up sending off to the Volcano?”

Logan grinned slyly. “The Operatic Tragedy-”

Remus clapped his hands together with resolution. “And that was your mistake.”

“What are you talking about?” Logan cried. “I thought you enjoyed my… my, how do you say, ‘blood and guts’ stories…”

“And I do,” Remus chimed in, a sly yet sincere wildness in his grin. “Hell, it’s the kind of writing I love to do myself. But the editors at the Volcano don’t like it. You know they will edit that story like hell until it’s tamer, bland, less inspired.” He shrugged, adjusting his ink-stained sleeves. “And then, the great literary mind, Mr. Logan March, will fall into mundanity and obscurity like the rest of ‘em.”

Logan scowled. “I’m… I’m confused, and I must have been just so blind and stupid to look before leaping like that, I…” He groaned. “I feel like a child, and now I’ve messed up. It’s all wrong.”

“You’ll just have to submit something that they can’t censor, I suppose,” Remus suggested, shrugging. “Or hold tighter to the rights to your story next time. Those bastards at the Volcano love chucking great thinkers and writers into nothingness-”

“I’ll give the editors the benefit of the doubt, first of all,” Logan started. “And I’m not so overwhelmed with ambition that I willfully and foolishly desire to see myself as a ‘great thinker’ now. I just want to be different and, and new, new enough to be successful, and successful enough-”

“To support your family, right?” Remus asked. “You know, as much as you try to avoid the topic, you can never really shake them away, can you?”

Logan bit his lip as he crossed to the window. If their conversation had been a sparring match, Remus Bhaer would have left him with dozens of bruises and palpable hits. And yet, he did not mind their conversation. Nobody in Concord ever went out of their way to challenge Logan’s mind in conversation like this. People had tried, like his brothers, like their father, Thomas, like Janus, but Logan had always craved more.

“Look, Logan, I don’t say all of this to tease or threaten you - I mean, it’s not like I see you as competition or anything, no matter what those old broads that run this place have to say…”

Logan snickered.

“I just think that you can write something better, something… insane, that those blasted publishers won’t be able to skirt around, I just, I know you can do it.” Remus smiled, stuffing his hands awkwardly into his waistcoat pockets. “Christ, that was a lot of sentimentalities, wasn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Logan said, nodding firmly.

“Besides, I’ve seen those novel outlines you’ve got hidden in your dresser,” Remus added, a catlike grin spreading across his face. “Pretty interesting ideas, buy the way. A little light on the dark stuff, but nevertheless-”

“You’ve been going through my things?” Logan cried, hanging his head. “You are… truly impossible, I don’t know what to say to you anymore-”

“Don’t say anything,” Remus said, shrugging. “How about you just get started writing something better?”

“Hold on, give me just a night to get my bearings!” Logan insisted. He did not want this conversation to end, not really, and that surprised him. “Or, you know, take time for something else.” He had seen Remus flocking to the theatre and dance halls when he was finished teaching and writing for the day, and although those places overwhelmed Logan with memories of his brothers in Concord, perhaps he could use the opportunity to craft new ones.

Remus grinned. “In that case, I’ll be seeing you tonight, Mr. March.”


	2. II. Paris, 1868

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman’s eyes stopped, eyeing a tall, handsome, and familiar figure further down the path. Talking about Virgil and Patton had overwhelmed him with memories of his childhood, and seeing this figure made Roman feel hopeful, light, tickled with infatuation and love for the first time in years.
> 
> “Janus, is that you?” Roman cried.

The truth, as Roman constantly insisted to himself, wasn’t that he had forgotten Concord, Massachusetts. He had not forgotten his three older brothers and their families or careers or whatever. He could never forget them.

But Paris had changed Roman, and maybe he was the change that his brothers needed. Roman had changed in such a way that could maybe save their lives, bring them out of the poverty that had stunted the pursuit of their dreams for years.

For nearly six years, Roman had followed his uncle’s instruction and advice with the filial respect Emile March commanded. Roman gave into fancies at every chance he got, yes, but also mastered the sophisticated, austere decorum found among the most respected members of Parisian society. Every week, Roman spent hours in Paris’ greatest art museums, but also by the side of his own easel, mastering still-lives, portraiture, and the sensitive yet sensible eye required to accurately celebrate high society in oils and acrylics. Yet, Roman still felt constrained by his lack of title and manor, as well as the little money he had to his own name, but he had still blossomed into a respected figure among Paris’ upper echelons, even if it had to slowly kill the boy from Concord along the way.

At this point, all Roman had to do now was marry rich. He winced at the thought - it was his only real remaining chance at greatness, a sustainable sort of greatness that would last generations ensuring his family’s stability and safety, but there was no way to romanticize that situation. It tarnished Roman’s rose-colored memories of the last six years, but if he was to be his family’s hero, it would have to be done.

Roman leaned back in his carriage seat, his eyes wandering through the park aimlessly. He could not have been alone in his fears, in his status as a secret impostor among the elite, in his desires never to be fulfilled-

“Roman, is something wrong?”

Roman stopped, turning to face his uncle. Emile March was wealthier than the rest of his family and in-laws, but had taken Roman under his wing to promise his brother-in-law, Thomas, some semblance of a future for his sons.

“I’m fine, Uncle March, it’s nothing,” Roman murmured.

“Now, Roman,” Emile cooed. “You know I wouldn’t have brought you to Europe if you were always this habitually solemn… heaven knows, that’s why I didn’t bring your brother,” he muttered under his breath. “What? Is there bad news in Concord that’s getting you down - oh, this isn’t about Virgil, is it?”

Roman’s face grew pale and grim at the thought of his brother. In the past few weeks, Roman had received letters from both Patton and his father, Thomas, reporting that Virgil was struggling with scarlet fever… again. Roman had only ever associated such a thing with his childhood nightmares - Virgil had beaten the disease before, so why had it fallen upon the March household again?

“To tell the truth, Uncle March, I wasn’t thinking about Virgil,” Roman mumbled apologetically. “But I should have been.” An impossible thought crossed his mind. “You don’t think, do you think it would be a good idea to maybe go back to Concord, you know, see how he’s doing…” His voice trailed off.

Emile smiled sadly. “Roman, that’s so, that’s so thoughtful of you, but you wouldn’t want to get sick yourself. After all, you’re doing everything you can to help your family by being here with me, isn’t that right?”

Roman leaned against the wall of the carriage, his eyes falling back to the passing crowds. “I think so…”

“Isn’t Patton taking care of Virgil?”

Roman nodded.

“Awfully brave of him, terrible that it’s keeping him from his job in Boston, isn’t it?”

Roman’s eyes stopped, eyeing a tall, handsome, and familiar figure further down the path. Talking about Virgil and Patton had overwhelmed him with memories of his childhood, and seeing this figure made Roman feel hopeful, light, tickled with infatuation and love for the first time in years.

“Janus, is that you?” Roman cried.

Janus turned around to face the carriage, a smile spreading across his pointed face. “Roman? Roman!”

Roman leaped over the carriage door, tearing up the gravel path as he ran to tackle his friend in a hug. “What are you doing here? It’s been so long-”

“I’m traveling, taking care of some family business for my grandfather, but that’s not important - what are you doing here?”

Roman grinned. “I’ve been living with my uncle, you know, traveling, meeting people - oh, I’ve been studying painting, too, just like I said I would six years ago, and-”

Janus’ jaw dropped, wonder and shock in his eyes. “Six years? Why, forget Concord, you’ve really grown up here, haven’t you?”

“I’m going to be an artist,” Roman said proudly. In that instant, all of his dreams seemed within reach once again. In that instant, whimsy became a natural impulse once again.

Janus nodded, taking Roman’s hand in his own. “I know you will.”

“Roman, before we go, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Emile called down from the carriage. The carriage driver, clearly somewhat annoyed with the delay, began clenching and unclenching the bridle in his hands impatiently.

“Uncle March, have you met Janus Theodore Laurence? He was our friend back in Concord, I mean, my and my brothers’ friend-”

Janus shrugged. “What can I say, I’ve pledged many an oath of loyalty to the March family-”

“Shut up,” Roman playfully muttered under his breath, gently elbowing Janus in the gut.

“It was very nice to meet you, but we really must be going,” Emile said, motioning for Roman to climb back into the carriage.

“Wait!” Janus exclaimed. “When can I see you two esteemed gentlemen again?” he asked, before turning to Roman. “Like tonight, perhaps? I don’t want to miss you before I have to leave.”

“Do you know Fred Vaughn?” Roman asked.

Janus nodded keenly. “The art collector? I believe I do-”

“We’ll be at his party tonight. Top hats and silks!”

“I’ll be there,” Janus murmured before wrapping Roman in another fast hug.

Roman smiled as he climbed back into the carriage. He had never expected the warmth, levity, and joy of his childhood to follow him from Concord to Paris, but here Janus was. And dreaming no longer seemed dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the introduction of some new, unexpected characters, namely Emile as Aunt March (I wasn’t initially sure how I would incorporate the character of Aunt March, but his role will be important in later chapters). Also, as this chapter is so Roman-centric, I guess you could consider this my post for his birthday (this chapter was originally published on Roman's birthday!).


	3. III. Concord, 1861

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan grinned. “Tell me that all of Concord’s aristocracy is like that, I dare you.”
> 
> “I wish I could.”

“Logan, you will be ready soon, won’t you? We have to get going soon, and you’re hardly dressed!”

“Logan doesn’t look like anyone you’d see at a fancy party-”

At last, Logan finally rolled his eyes, tearing them away from the paper in front of him to glare at his brothers, Patton and Roman. “I’m coming, give me a minute.”

Virgil, Logan’s other brother, third youngest in all, lazily ambled his way over to Logan’s desk, playfully draping his arms over Logan’s shoulders. “So what are you working on now?” he asked slowly, his voice low and tired.

“You know, if Logan and Patton knew I was working on their new speeches for the play, they wouldn’t try to rush me. If I want this to be really good and really worthwhile, I need to take time to improve-”

“I thought we weren’t performing until Christmas, and that’s months away-”

“Yes, but it has to be great, it has to be better than anything else I’ve ever written, and that takes time.” Logan set down his writing ruefully, before grabbing his coat from his bed. “I’m coming, but Patton, move over! You’re not the only one who needs the mirror!”

“Logan, please just a minute more! You know I’m almost-”

“Wow,” Virgil muttered as his brothers fixed their ties. “You both look just like Father-”

“I don’t understand why Patton and Logan get to go to the party and I don’t! This is unfair, this is an injustice, this-”

“Oh, be quiet,” Logan groaned as he finally pushed himself in front of the mirror. Patton moved away graciously, rolling his eyes when he was sure his brothers would not see. “Besides, Roman, you’re too young - here’s a thought, maybe you should stop acting like a baby for a change, then maybe Father will let you go.”

“Roman, kiddo, Logan didn’t mean to call you a baby,” Patton started, turning to his youngest brother.

“Yes I did,” Logan grumbled, tucking a stray lock of hair back into the knot at the back of his head. While Patton took some amount of time and effort to look presentable (within his family’s means, of course), Logan spent so much time writing and reading in the attic that the notions slipped past him.

Virgil shot a glance toward his youngest brother, sensing a need to keep comforting him. “Look, Roman, why don’t you, I don’t know, come downstairs with me? We can find something to do together, I don’t know what-”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. The moment we get downstairs, the piano will be more than enough company for you, and you’ll forget me, just like everyone else! My gosh-”

“Roman, why don’t you stop trying to use big words?” Logan groaned. “You know that nobody takes you seriously.” He ran his fingers down his hand-me-down blue coat, turning to Patton. “Do you think anyone’s going to notice the hole here?” he asked, looking down at the coat’s fraying hem.

“I don’t think so, if you move a lot, I don’t think.”

“Shut up, Logan!”  
“Roman, stop it!” Virgil hissed. “Just, I don’t know, give it a rest for a minute, until Patton and Logan leave…”

“Now, kiddo, I’m sorry that you can’t come with us, but we promise to tell you all about it,” Patton cooed. He stopped adjusting his tie to console his youngest brother. Although the four of them were relatively close in age, Patton took his job as the oldest brother seriously. He wanted to feel as reckless, free, and young as his other brothers, but that was not always possible, not when adulthood approached more closely every day. “Don’t we, Logan?”

“Sure,” Logan muttered, wrapping an unruly long cowlick around one of his fingers.

Virgil moved towards Logan, creeping in to whisper in his ear. “What’s your problem?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Logan’s eyes darted quickly to Roman, who was sufficiently pacified by Patton’s promise, before whispering to Virgil conspiratorially. “I don’t even know if I want to go to the party,” he admitted. “I mean, I need to finish writing the play, you know that, especially after I promised Patton and Roman more speeches…”

Virgil smirked. “Wow, you crush Roman’s spirit with a lie? He’s going to hate you all over again when I tell-”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Logan, Virge, what are you talking about?” Patton asked innocently.

“Nothing, nothing,” Virgil exclaimed quickly, pushing his lips together to hide the mischievous grin that would otherwise be spreading across his face. Yet there was still a warmth and honesty in his eyes - no matter how snarky and sarcastic Virgil could be, Logan knew that he would never betray him.

“Logan and Patton, are you both ready to go?” 

The four brothers turned to see their father, Thomas, coming up the stairs to the attic. “Wow, you both look, you look great, and I hope you have a great time.”

Logan shrugged. “I’ll try.”

“We will, Father,” Patton exclaimed assuringly.

“Will I get to go next time, Father?” Roman asked, clasping his hands together slyly.

“Roman, we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

As Logan and Patton descended the stairs, grabbing their coats and hats, Logan could see his youngest brother rolling his eyes again. 

***

After hours of pretending to be excited about dancing, Logan smugly congratulated himself. He had been correct to dread the party, and he began wishing he could be up in the attic writing again. Patton had attracted the attention of dozens of handsome men and beautiful women and would be content to dance for hours more, but Logan had to find alternative methods to pass the night away.

He had started by taking the low road and considered hiding behind curtains, but spending time alone with his thoughts was deeply unproductive is he was not able to write them down. He had thought about indulging in the fancier foods at the party, even thinking to grab a truffle and profiterole for his younger brothers, but staying at the food table meant talking to others, and Logan already felt out of place among Concord’s upper-crust; trying to talk with them would only make him feel worse. Finally, Logan had settled on finding the library, which was thankfully close to the ballroom.

However, he wasn’t alone there, either.

Logan scowled as soon as he saw the other young man sitting there. His suit was ornate, his cuffs and collar lined with gold embroidery and his tie set with a handsome yellow jewel. He was everything Logan didn’t understand about Concord’s wealthy social classes - in fact, he didn’t even look like he was from Concord. The library’s firelight illuminated his distinct, pointed features and the wisdom in his golden eyes-

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone else would want to escape from the party - should I go?” he asked hurriedly.

“W-what? No, no, no you don’t have to do that.” Logan frowned guiltily. He sat down on the chaise lounge across from the young man. “Didn’t think I would see anyone else here, that’s all.”

“Oh, I always come to parties like this one just for show. I’d rather, just, I don’t know, exile myself some more; Concord society can be-”  
“Overwhelming?” Logan suggested. “To tell the truth, I don’t… participate in it as much as I should.” He bit his lip in thought. “My brother does, though, he wants to, I mean.”

The young man raised an eyebrow before extended a gloved hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I haven’t met you before, have I? I mean, my name’s Janus, Janus Theodore Laurence.”

“Christopher Columbus,” Logan muttered, awestruck, under his breath. He knew who the Laurences were - their home was a few paces from his. The large manor had always struck Logan as limitless, yet cold. He had never imagined anyone like Janus living there.

Logan smiled, taking Janus’ hand. “It’s good to meet you. My name’s Logan March.” He moved to the door, where he could see Patton leading a dancing circle across the hall, his sky blue coattails fluttering behind him. “And that’s my brother, Patton, there across the way. I do have two other brothers at home, Virgil and Roman.”

Janus nodded. “And do all of your brothers flee from society like you do? I mean, I guess Patton doesn’t, considering that he’s leading the others-”

“The others don’t know anything about it yet, but I don’t care for it because I’m a writer,” Logan exclaimed proudly in one breath. He looked back at Janus, suddenly regretting his brashness. “Sorry, Janus, I didn’t mean to insult you, I-”

“No offense taken, I promise,” Janus assured Logan. A shy yet mischievous, youthful grin crept across his otherwise stern face. “But do give me one chance to try and change your mind?” He extended his gloved hand to Logan once again.

“I don’t think so, there’s…” Logan looked down. “There’s a hole in my coat.”

“Then let’s go somewhere where no one will see it!”

Before Logan knew it, Janus had grabbed him by the hand, sneaking him past the twirling couples on the dance floor and onto the manor’s large covered porch. Each of the normally austere columns was wrapped in a floral garland, and candles further illuminated the pathway down which couples would lazily stroll in the night. Logan and Janus were still basked in the same warm light together, glowing proudly rather than in hiding the library.

Janus turned to Logan, grinning. “May I have this dance?”

“You have really got the wrong idea about me, don’t you, Janus?” Logan asked incredulously. “I don’t dance; my brothers do, but I don’t, I assure you. Besides, I just said I wouldn’t-”

Before Logan could finish his thought, Janus began spinning him wildly down the porch. The two were entwined in a cacophony of laughter and stomping feet that seemed endless and impossible. After several minutes, Logan and Janus, both out of breath, slouched down against a prominent window sill, faces red, hair swept out of place.

Logan grinned. “Tell me that all of Concord’s aristocracy is like that, I dare you.”

“I wish I could.”

“Logan, are you there? I’ve been looking for you!”

Logan shot up to see his brother, Patton, walking down the porch to join them. His face was flushed, and although he smiled, he winced with every step. “I’m sorry, but I think I’ve sprained my ankle-”

“Too much dancing?”

“Yes, and so I was wondering if you wanted to leave…”

“Patton, if you’re hurt, we don’t have to stay any longer,” Logan insisted. “This is Mr. Janus Laurence, by the way…”

Patton smiled weakly, hurriedly shaking Janus’ hand. “It is wonderful to meet you, I’m sorry it was so rushed-”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Janus chirped, his tone of voice regaining the dignity and poise he had put on when Logan first met him. “But you shouldn’t have to walk back in the dark. Please, take my carriage, I insist-”

Patton’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates behind his glasses. “There’s no need, please-”

“No, I insist,” Janus said again, this time offering Patton his shoulder. “Any friend - or family - of Logan’s is a friend of mine.”

***

“You’re home so soon?”

“We had to leave, Patton hurt his ankle-”

“I’m fine, but Mr. Laurence helped us home, Father, I promise nothing’s wrong”

As Logan and Janus led Patton back into the house, it came to life once again. Virgil bolted up from the piano bench, and Roman, who had been lazing away at the well-loved couch in front of the fireplace, lifted his head with anticipation.

“Who are you?” Virgil asked shyly, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m Janus, Janus Laurence-”

“He’s one of the Laurences that lives across the way!” Logan added. “In the big house - you know, Roman, the one on your way to school.”

“Thank you again for helping us back here, Janus,” Patton said, lowering himself slowly into a chair. “And it was very kind of you to watch over Logan all night the way you did-”

“I didn’t need watching over!” Logan insisted, pulling up his coat’s collar to hide his flushing face. “But thank you.”

“Mr. Laurence, can I get you anything before you go?” Thomas asked, entering the living room and stoking the fire. “Some coffee or tea, maybe?”

“That’s very kind of you, but there’s no need,” Janus said, smiling. “I’ll just sit here and get warm for a minute,” he murmured before sitting down at the other end of the couch. He turned to Roman, murmuring a brief “hello”.

Roman’s face flushed. “I’m Roman,” he said quickly and breathlessly.

Janus smiled shyly. “It’s nice to meet you, Roman.”

After several minutes of animated conversation with the brothers, Janus excused himself humbly, with Thomas once again thanking the young man for his generosity. The four brothers peered out the window as his carriage pulled away into the night.

“You danced with him all night?” Roman asked Logan, eyes shifting.

“No, Patton’s overexaggerating,” Logan groaned, impulsively tugging at a lock of hair. “It was just nice to have some, I Don’t know, refreshing, thoughtful company… unlike you.” He finally smirked.

“Shut up!” Roman cried, and the arguments from before the party resumed with much vigor and spirit, despite the late hour of the night.

Logan kept humoring his brothers with shouts and wild play-fighting, but he eventually retreated to his room in the attic. Rather than succumbing to his heavy eyelids and going to sleep, he went to his desk, dipping his pen back into his inkwell.

Spending so much time with Janus had inspired Logan, and perhaps, if he could not work new ideas for scenes into his play, then maybe there was a spot for them somewhere in the many drafts of his novel. Logan flipped through the stack of papers on his desk, each capturing different scenes and different worlds, some familiar, and some highly fantastical and far away.

Logan smiled, putting pen to paper. The night’s work was only just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that introduces the past/flashback timeline, and I really enjoy writing all of the relationships at play here! It's worth pointing out that the chapters in the past timeline are designed to be much more fragmentary, jumping between multiple points-of-view, and the characters may remember some events in idyllic, romanticized ways. (Also this chapter is like twice as long what the heck)
> 
> Also thanks for the kudos & comments on the last chapters! <3


	4. IV. Concord, 1868

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil got up from the piano bench, squeezing himself next to Patton on the couch. “The others don’t need to be here if they can’t, because I’ll always have you and Father-”
> 
> “Don’t say strong things like that-” Patton started.
> 
> “I meant what I said.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief content warning: This chapter features semi-elaborate descriptions of illness, some plot-relevant angst, and brief allusions to character death.

Patton March wanted so desperately to believe that he was a good person, that he would martyr himself to make the world a better place without a second thought.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Mere moments ago, he had guarded the crumpled dollar bills in his hand ferociously, safe in the knowledge that they would be used to help his family (or another family, for that matter), to make his brother and his father’s lives just a little better.

But Patton had forgotten those principles as soon as he saw the blue fabric in the window. It was fine, yet durable, exquisite, yet versatile, and in a fit of foolishness, Patton purchased it, promising himself that he would use it to make something nice for the orphanage back in Boston. At least, that was the lie he told himself.

Patton hated that he wanted something solely for himself. He hated that he wanted to give in to his own selfishness, and that he had given in. A modest bolt of the fabric was folded in the bottom of his basket, hidden by his other purchases from town that day. He could not bring himself to look at it again.

When Patton made it out of town, opening the door to his home, he could hear Virgil practicing piano for what seemed to be the third or fourth time that day. Patton smiled sadly. Some things would never change, and no matter what, he would always be ready and willing to listen to his brother play. As Patton moved into the living room, Virgil stopped playing, his rash-covered fingers moving deftly to close the piano’s lid with a quiet click. He coughed into his elbow and wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.

“You don’t have to stop,” Patton insisted gently. “I mean, you can stop if you want to, but don’t stop because of me…”

Virgil nodded, saying nothing.

“How are you doing?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question, right?” Virgil muttered sarcastically. “You don’t have to ask me that question every second of every day, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, but Virgil-”

“Besides, I think that you already know how I’m doing, considering who you were writing to and everything-” Virgil stopped. “I’m sorry, Patton-”

“Virgil, I’ve read those doctors’ reports, I’m not doing all of this to annoy you!” Patton cried, clenching his fingers out of stress. “At this point, it feels likes you’re the only person who’s giving, well, anybody attitude about it, kiddo!” 

Virgil looked down. “I’m sorry, but, Patton…” He sighed. “But I wouldn’t be lying if I said it made things feel like old times…and what I’m trying to say is, is that I missed you, and I’m sorry I can’t show it in the way you want and…” Virgil rolled his eyes. “I sound stupid, don’t I?”

Patton laughed sadly. On the one hand, he wished he could sink all the way into the couch, disappearing from the living room, but even if he could, denial would not save his younger brother’s life. “Anyways, I was writing to your brothers, not anyone else. I just, I don’t know, I thought they should know everything-”

“Everything.” Virgil furrowed his brow, yawning softly. “They don’t have to come here, though, I mean, I know what I said about old times, but wow, that’d be asking a lot, wouldn’t it?” Virgil got up from the piano bench, squeezing himself next to Patton on the couch. “The others don’t need to be here if they can’t, because I’ll always have you and Father-”

“Don’t say strong things like that-” Patton started.

“I meant what I said.”

Patton did not know how to fill the uncomfortable silence. He did not understand how Virgil saw the world, and he knew that he never would, not without hitting one of his brother’s nerves. After his brother said nothing, Virgil shrugged turning back to the piano.

“I don’t know, I thought maybe having Logan here would be nice because he knows how to take care of people with scarlet fever-”

Virgil laughed. “Shut up, he knows how to take care of me with scarlet fever,” he scoffed playfully, correcting Patton’s statement. “Could you honestly imagine Logan kneeling over anyone else’s bedside, attempting and failing to console them?”

Patton chuckled. “I love him, but some problems can’t be solved by writing a short story, can they?”

“Hell no.”

Patton smiled. It was nice to see some light cross Virgil’s face. As he had gotten sicker, his cheeks had grown gaunt, and the bags under his eyes had only grown darker due to many sleepless, feverish nights.

“Is it hard?” Virgil asked.

Patton stopped. “Is what hard?”

“Taking care of people all the time like that, I don’t know,” Virgil said, shrugging. “I mean, cause you do it all the time with your work and stuff in Boston, and for me, so, I don’t know…”

“Virgil, you know the same sleeplessness we do - not that I’m downplaying anything that you’ve experienced-”

Virgil bit his lip. “Honestly, I hate that I’m used to it.”

“But it’s always hard to watch someone go through that much pain, even if you can’t see it, and, and fully wrap your head around them being sick, you know?” Patton shook his head. “Sorry, I’m tired - I don’t know what I’m saying half the time…”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Makes sense.”

“You just have to be there, and what you want doesn’t really matter anymore - at least, it shouldn’t.” Patton cursed himself under his breath, thinking back to the fabric at the bottom of the basket.

Virgil drummed his fingers against the piano’s closed lid, an absentminded nervous tick he had acquired after sitting at the instrument for years. “Then write to Logan and tell him to go back to New York!” he exclaimed finally.

“What?”

“Do it, do it now, please-”

“Virgil, don’t get yourself worked up, you should get some rest-”

“But I don’t want my sickness to be the reason he doesn’t get published.” Virgil stood up, facing Patton firmly. “It’s my fault he didn’t get to go to Europe, right?”  
“Virgil, don’t say that, that was years ago-”

“And I don’t want to be the reason he fives up writing, or anything for that matter! Who am I kidding, he’s probably happier in New York than he is here, right?” Virgil’s eyes grew shifty. He sighed, his throat rattling, before leaning over and hacking into his elbow. When Virgil lifted his head again, a thin layer of sweat had reappeared on his forehead, and his eyes had grown sad and glassy.

“Let’s be honest with each other,” Patton murmured. “Do you want Logan to be here?”

“I do… and I shouldn’t,” Virgil whispered. “He’s all I’ve ever known.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon and in fan works, Patton and Virgil’s relationship, and the many ways it can be depicted, has always been interesting to me (is this because I’m a sucker for hurt/comfort? probably), and I’ve enjoyed exploring it so far. Without their louder, more opinionated brothers to fill the space between them, both characters are more vulnerable and have to struggle openly with their similarities and differences.


	5. V. Concord, 1861

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman pouted. “I wish we could all seem again - why doesn’t he ever come to the house?”
> 
> “Because rich people have their own problems, problems bigger than us?” Virgil suggested. Patton grimaced.

“Virgil, Roman, could you come down here, please? I’m pretty sure Logan’s got a surprise for you-”

Roman poked his head out, peering down the stairwell. “I don’t know, do you honestly expect us to trust Logan’s idea of a surprise? We always get in trouble, or have to do work-” Logan’s inspiration and drive had been even greater in the past few months, with disastrous, chaotic, and even exciting consequences. Roman often asked himself why, but had yet to find an answer.

“Coming, Patton!” Virgil slinked past Roman before stomping in a rush down the stairs. “Do you know what it is, Patton?”

“Well, kiddos, you know Logan as well as I do, so I have an idea of what it might be, but who knows?” Patton said. He shrugged before sitting down in an armchair and picking up his current sewing project. Patton had taken recently to taking his father’s old clothes, tailoring and altering them to fit well into current styles. It was the closest he ever came to purchasing new clothes for himself.

“Is it about the play?” Roman asked, leaning further out and peering further down the stairs. It was obvious that he wanted to partake in the surprise; his attempt at a standoffish attitude was hardly effective.

“Come on down if you want to find out-”

“Who knows, what if Logan wrote you out of the play-”

“Shut up, Virgil! I’m coming, Patton!”

As Roman raced into the living room, the front door of the March house burst open with a bang. Roman could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Is this the surprise?” he stammered.

“No, this was just a detour on my way home.” Logan stood proudly in the doorway, a cut-down pine tree hoisted between his arms, sprigs of blue spruce knit into his long, unruly hair. His nose and face were red from time spent out in the chilling December air.

Patton rose with a shock from his seat, dropping his needle and thread. “Logan, where, goodness, Logan, where did you get that?”

Logan smiled slyly. “It was given to me.” He paraded proudly into the living room, pitching up the tree in a particularly drafty, empty corner of the living room. “You know, the whole Christmas season can be hard to handle with overwhelming parties-”

“-and visits to Uncle March,” Virgil added, rolling his eyes.

“-and it’s hard to fully believe that it’s a holiday when the reality is, the war won’t stop.” Logan sighed, stepping back from the tree. “I know Christmas won’t feel like a normal thing this year-”

Patton winced.

“But I wanted you all to have a little Christmas spirit of your own-”

“Yeah, but who gave you the tree?” Roman interjected.

“Roman, you shouldn’t interrupt your older brother like that-”

“But you don’t have to be so secretive about it, like you are about everything!” Roman cried, standing up. “Come on, mystery loves company!”

Virgil raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Roman, that’s not, that’s not really a thing people say, like, ever-”

“All right,” Logan said, turning from the tree. “You really mustn’t tell everyone, but Janus gave it to me-”

“The boy from the party?” Patton asked.

“He’s more than that, Patton; in fact, he is our neighbor, too-”

“How have you been seeing him?” Roman asked.

“Covertly,” Logan said teasingly. “But stop badgering me, Roman - he’s my friend.” Logan sighed, plopping down on the couch. “Honestly, he’s probably the reason I go to any parties at all; I’ve got to keep up with my co-conspirator somehow. He lives in the big house across the way,” he finally added.

Roman pouted. “I wish we could all seem again - why doesn’t he ever come to the house?”

“Because rich people have their own problems, problems bigger than us?” Virgil suggested. Patton grimaced.

“Shut up, Virge!”

“Anyways, like I said, that wasn’t really the surprise.” Logan smiled. He ran upstairs to the attic before returning with several thick bound stacks of paper. “Here you are - the final draft of my first ever Operatic Tragedy!” He passed the scripts amongst his brothers. “Now, Patton, Roman, I’ve added the additional speeches like you wanted. In particular, Patton, you should practice te choreography for the fight scene, and Roman, you should make the death scene as gripping and powerful as possible - do you understand?”

“I’ll do my best, Logan!” Patton stammered.

“Just you wait, Logan, I shall be raw and graceful like no one’s ever seen before!” Roman insisted.

Virgil smiled, already thumbing through the script. “You’re right, Logan,” he murmured. “It will be like a normal Christmas, won’t it?” He looked up at his brother. “Thanks, I… I really needed this.”

“It won’t be entirely normal, and we shouldn’t try to ignore that.” Patton added hesitantly. “I’m sorry, Virgil-”

Logan turned into the conversation. “It’s like what I said before, isn’t it, with the war and everything-”

“And I have accepted that, I have, but…” Patton hung his head. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ll ever be happy about it.” He picked up his needle and thread, bringing them back to the coat he was altering. “I am allowed to wish we had money, right? I mean, I hope that doesn’t make me a bad person or anything…”

“But we’re not going to poor forever, I promise you, Patton,” Roman exclaimed. “Because Logan’s going to be a great author, and I’m going to be a famous painter, or maybe an actor, I don’t know yet, but it’ll be amazing, and I will give all of my money to all of you-”

“I’m not asking for that, Roman, you don’t have to do that,” Patton insisted. “I just hope that things get better when we grow up-”

“I do, too,” Virgil mumbled.

Logan gave his older brother a reassuring nod. “I know that things will be better once we’re older.” He turned to his other brothers. “Now, get to learning your lines - we’ll have our first rehearsal tonight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, it is very strange writing episodes that take place in December in the middle of June, but I oddly appreciate the vibes it's been giving me.  
> Also, I've already written several of the chapters that come after this one and I love adding obnoxious amounts of foreshadowing, so stay tuned :D  
> thanks again for reading and leaving kudos!


	6. VI. Paris, 1868

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shut up!” Roman muttered, gritting his teeth. “Anyways, I should’ve known that this wasn’t going anywhere… selfish people love to talk about themselves…”
> 
> “Well, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

Although he had been inundated by swirling silk dresses and coattails, a soaring string quartet, and the smell of champagne warming the air, Roman did not feel out of place at the Vaughns’ party. He had seen wealthy partygoers eyeing him across the dance hall - Roman wasn’t going to deny that reality. He had danced with the best and wealthiest of them - hell, he had really enjoyed himself, the most selfish parts of his soul finally getting the opportunity to release his inhibitions.

However, Roman still felt overwhelmingly alone. He wasn’t going to deny that, either.

Roman apologized quickly to the charming, albeit slightly tipsy countess he was dancing with, excusing himself to grab a drink from a passing footman. His eyes wandered across the great hall, bored and without ambition. At this point, he was used to living a life without his loved ones immediately there at his side, but after the afternoon in the park, his hopes had soared, only to come crashing down and splashing anticlimactically, apparently, into a bottle of champagne, or so he thought.

Roman winced. He wished his thoughts hadn’t been nearly so literal, grimacing as he saw Janus enter the hall, an uneasy, involuntary swagger in his step. Roman had been waiting for what felt like ages. He knew right away that Janus had been drinking, not only because of his walk, but because of the two giggling girls propping him up on either side. He sunk into a couch, draping his legs across their skirts.

Janus’ eyes traced lazy circles around the hall before becoming fixed on Roman. “Mr. March, there you are!” A crooked smile spread across his face. “Happy to see me?”

Roman scowled, turning around and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Janus, this isn’t a game to me, you understand that, right? You’re not being funny.” He rolled his eyes. “I waited an hour for you.”

Janus shot up, his eyes filling with a playful mock sympathy. “Oh, forgive me, Roman, come on, hear me out!” When Janus finally got close to Roman, Roman could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“What are you trying to say to me-?”

“That I’m sorry-”

“Oh, please-”

“Roman, listen to me-”

“No, no!” Roman grimaced. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know. We parted six years ago, and I’m grown, but you haven’t! I mean, honestly, with every chance you get at being good, you are lazy, and selfish, and dishonest, and-”

“Oh, forgive me, then, Saint Roman!” Janus cried, taking Roman’s hand in a gesture of mock pity. “I’ll do better, I’ll fit all of your perfect, silly ideals, just you wait-” Even while tipsy, Janus had not lost his sarcastic edge.

“Shut up!” Roman muttered, gritting his teeth. “Anyways, I should’ve known that this wasn’t going anywhere… selfish people love to talk about themselves…”

“Well, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

Roman stopped. “What did you say to me?”

Janus smirked. “All of that talk this morning, you know, how you’re going to be a great artist, how confident you are of your place in Parisian aristocracy-”

“Stop…”

“You know, Roman, I’m impressed by you. You always speak with such certainty, and yet, such stupidity…”

Roman looked down at Janus’ hand in his, wanting to get away from Janus’ cutting eyes as quickly as possible. “You’re just… that’s not true,” he muttered. “You’re just saying that because I’m not as perfect as Logan, is that it?”

Janus stopped for the first time, genuinely lost for words. “Look, Roman…” he stammered. “You don’t see me or, or anybody else, for that matter, talking about your brother…” He was hurt.

“No, it’s because he’s the one who’s actually going to be successful, right? He’s the famous writer-”

“Roman, please-”

“And I’m nothing, right? You think I’m nothing.”

Janus winced, looking down at his feet. The couples who had been dancing close to them had now moved away, cringing at the nature of their conversation.

“Roman, I never meant to make you feel that way-”

“Let go of my hand.”

Janus did. “You’re not… nothing to me.”

“Mr. Laurence, I don’t want to hear you or the alcohol talking anymore. I’m leaving.” Roman scowled again.

“Roman-”

Roman turned around, burying his face in his jacket as he left the great hall. The air in there was uncomfortable and hot, Janus’ disgraceful, dishonest attempt at an apology hanging over Roman’s head as he left the building and boarded his carriage.

When Roman got home, he was grateful to find that Uncle March was already asleep. But he hadn’t been left alone the whole time, apparently - Roman could see that a postman had arrived late in the night with a stack of letters. One letter, in a slightly stained envelope, was addressed to Roman. He smiled guiltily as he recognized the handwriting. It was Patton. But Roman hadn’t written home in months; what was prompting this now?

Roman lazily tore the envelope open with his fingernail, a rushed and ragged letter from his brother falling out before him. As Roman read, he got scared, feeling more overwhelmed and ashamed.

Virgil was sick, but that was not the only reason Patton was writing. The last line read, “I understand if you can’t come back home. You have more important things to do.”

Roman crumpled up the letter, chucking it across his bedroom, defeated. His own brothers had lost faith in him, assuming Roman would inevitably turn a blind eye to their wants, needs, and fears.

Worst of all, Roman knew that they were right. He had worked too hard to even think about the opportunity to go to Paris. He had even cut down Logan, the great, successful brother, to earn money, safety, and prestige.

Roman wished that he could change his nature. But he knew that was impossible, head in his hands as he crossed to his desk. He began writing a reply to Patton, preparing himself to let his brothers down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I love writing Roceit and I just want them to be happy! also me:
> 
> Anyways, I definitely had the roceit Tumblr tag open in another post as I was editing this chapter, because I needed something decidedly not-angsty to get me through (what can I say, fluff is good for the soul).  
> I fall in love a little more with Amy!Roman every time I write about him - I most certainly find myself vibing with his frustrations, inferiority complexes, and desire for greatness, for better or for worse. I'm also happy that he's quickly becoming a fan favorite!
> 
> As always, thanks for your kudos and lovely comments! <3


	7. VII. New York, 1868

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in years, Logan did not hold himself back. He did not try to formulate an excuse or feign hesitation, because he really wanted to dance. Just like Remus, he wanted to live and he wanted to learn, come what may. Dozens of feet stomped against the creaking floorboards, and yet the sounds, the music, and the shouting did not overwhelm Logan, but intrigued him. If the world he lived in always chose to associate this sort of chaos with childhood, then Logan wondered why anyone would want to grow up.

“You know, Professor Bhaer, you surprise me - I’m serious, more often than I’d expect-”

“Really, Mr. March? I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve always considered myself an open book - and furthermore, I thought that you didn’t want me to be nearly as open to you as I am-”

“To others?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Remus smirked, the cool white lamplight accentuating his rugged features. “In good time, Mr. March, I assure you.” At this point, Logan was getting more and more used to his cryptic responses and tone of voice.

“Anyways, I never took you to be so invested in Shakespeare or theatre in general, not with the way you completely write off any and all sentimentality-”

“Mr. March, I’m a novelist and a professor; I’ve got to know my stuff!” Remus stopped, moving out of the shuffling crowds’ way as he fumbled to light a cigarette. “And you know, Shakespeare’s writing is so much more than sentimentality, no matter his mastery over lovesick comedies like the one we saw tonight.” Remus’ eyes suddenly grew more serious. “He understood death, betrayal, the futility of being - and you know that I can definitely get behind a man who understands those things.”

Logan nodded wordlessly.

“What, Mr. March, have I overwhelmed you to the point of silence? Something on your mind?”

Logan’s face flushed. “It’s funny. Sometimes, you forget where I’m from and who I am, don’t you?”

“Mr. March, I-”

“Not only that, but the opportunities I’ve had or haven’t, books I have or haven’t been able to afford, the educational opportunities I have or haven’t been able to pay for.” Logan looked up at Remus. “I’m as sorry as I can be for offending you - if I have, but so much of what I have or what I’ve learned has been experiential rather than institutional, unlike you, I mean.” He shrugged. “And even if I were capable of talking about books and writing and everything with the dexterity and wisdom you have, everyone I know would just think I’m mad, like always.” 

“Mr. March…”

“Plus, so much of the theatre I did get to see in Concord was just a bunch of-”

“Operatic tragedies?” Remus offered, gentle yet teasing edge to his voice.

Logan rolled his eyes playfully. “Shut up, why don’t you?”

“You know, nothing’s stopping you from… I don’t know, doing something with all of that universal wisdom rolling around in that brain of yours. Who knows, maybe writing something, accepting the greatness of that literary mind?”

Logan groaned. “I thought we were taking the night off from writing - or talking about it, for that matter-”

Remus laughed, drawing his cigarette from his lips. “When the entire world’s fuelling your imagination, overwhelming you with inspiration, there’s no such thing as a night off.” He grinned, impressed by his own profundity. Logan was surprised by it, too, but did not know how to show it. As much as Remus was an outcast from New York’s more bonafide literary circles, having no singular place to land or artistic vision, he shared their spirit and their constant flow of successful, sustainable inspiration, no matter how he sought to undercut himself. Logan wanted that inspiration. He also needed a way to sell it.

Remus shrugged, knocking ashes off the tip of his cigarette. “Anyways, the night is still young, isn’t it? Will you come with me, Mr. March?”

Logan looked up at the blackened sky, the moon a single sliver of silver light. “Young? By whose standards?”

“Come on! Live a little!” Without another word, Remus took Logan’s hand, and they bolted together down the streets of New York. They made up stories to each other about the other lonesome nightwalkers they passed, peered into gloomy, dark, closed storefronts that Logan would have found less fascinating during the day, and even ventured hesitantly into empty-looking alleyways, Remus claiming it would jumpstart his inspiration for a new horror novel.

By the very end of the night (or was it the early morning? Logan wasn’t sure), Logan found himself with Remus at a decrepit bar and dance hall. It was surprising - most of the patrons reminded Logan of his brothers - scruffy, lacking economically, sure, but dreaming abundantly, ambitiously, and dangerously.

Remus smiled, eyeing a chaotic dancing circle across the room. “May I?”

For the first time in years, Logan did not hold himself back. He did not try to formulate an excuse or feign hesitation, because he really wanted to dance. Just like Remus, he wanted to live and he wanted to learn, come what may. Dozens of feet stomped against the creaking floorboards, and yet the sounds, the music, and the shouting did not overwhelm Logan, but intrigued him. If the world he lived in always chose to associate this sort of chaos with childhood, then Logan wondered why anyone would want to grow up. After several rounds of dancing, Remus motioned to leave the dance circle, crossing to grab two drinks from the bar.

Logan shook his head as he drank, smiling sadly as he kept thinking on his childhood. “I wish I could tell you that all of Concord’s aristocracy was like this,” he breathlessly murmured.

For the first time (or so Logan had thought), genuine confusion crossed Remus’ face. “What are you talking about?”

Logan looked down, embarrassed and almost guilty. “Nothing…” he frowned. “Just a… confused turn of phrase.” He cringed. Logan had just foolishly romanticized and idolized the chaos of childhood, but he knew in his heart that his brothers were not the only people that made him miss that time in his life.

He had not thought about Janus Theodore Laurence in six years, and he did not want to start again now.

“Maybe we should get back to the boarding house after all,” Logan finally suggested.

Remus nodded, again offering Logan his arm. “Now, that’s the Logan I know and remember.”

Their walk back to the boarding house was quieter, less chaotic than their earlier exploration of the city streets. Although there was still an anxious fire burning in his belly, Logan stayed reticent and cold within his own thoughts. For so long, he had convinced himself that he had moved on, and that he was good at doing so. But indulging in memory had brought out the worst in him, and Logan was unable to shake away his feelings of regret.

Upon reaching the boarding house, Logan and Remus were surprised to see one of Mrs. Kirk’s teenage daughters still awake and dressed, a letter within her trembling fingers. “Mr. March, it’s for you,” she said hurriedly.

Logan took the letter between his hands. “Next time this happens, you don’t have to stay up and wait for me, do you understand?” he told her. “It’s far more important and healthy that you get your sleep-”

“My mother said that it was important, and so did the postman,” the girl said, turning back to her room. “Good morning, Mr. March, Professor Bhaer.”

“So it is the morning after all,” Remus grumbled to himself as he and Logan made their way up the stairs. “I’m sure as hell going to regret this in a few hours-”

“And that advice was for you as well; don’t forget that,” Logan said to him. “I’ll get writing in the morning, I promise you. But please, go to sleep.”

After Logan made it to his room at the end of the hall, he rushed to his letter opener and tore open the envelope. He recognized the handwriting, acknowledging the frantic state in which it was probably written, the dire circumstances that moved the sender to write to Logan in the first place.

It was Patton, affirming all of Logan’s fears. Virgil was much sicker, sicker than he had been, even worse than his first bout of scarlet fever years ago.

Logan knew that he would have to go back to Concord this morning, as soon as he could.

He grabbed his well-worn suitcase from under his bed, cramming it with enough clothing to last a few days. He looked again to his desk, before deciding top ack his inkwell, pens, and stacks of paper. Even now, he could fail Remus, and he couldn’t let down himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one of my favorite chapters (so far) for lots of reasons:
> 
> in every universe, Remus has his own special flavor of chaotic theatre kid energy (also I project onto him in this AU a LOT as an English lit major)
> 
> the intrulogical vibes here make me so deeply happy
> 
> for some reason, Janus has always had ex-boyfriend energy to me (even in canon lol), and I'm happy that I got to spend time with it here
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and for all of your lovely kudos/comments/bookmarks!


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